I'm

I've seen without eyes goals to be realized, but I have no hands; so I'll never feel it. Having said that, I've felt more and touched more without fingers. Without pores I feel the sweat drip anxiety from body parts that I have not; whatever I've been given is destroying what I've built. I'm working against myself, against the clock with no guilt that I'm hurting what I've got because really, I don't feel a thing. As I said before, with no pores pours these words of outer wisdoms, inner wars taken from the words that I never heard. See, I have no ears. Benefits from this aren't heard of as I fail to observe what lays ahead. With no shoulders lay a head, concentrations on yesterday. That's in my windshield, but in my rearview I can't see, feel or hear you; I get your signals, but see, I have no brain to act as a receptor to decipher what's left of her or inquire why there's a pyre where my heart was. See, I have no heart, just this smoldering pile of smoke that's seen for miles, but no one seems to get the smoke signal. So I'm holding my breath, but I no mouth or lungs, so I digress as I digest with no stomach what I can't hear, see or feel. I've been asked why should I worry when my senses don't seem to, but I've seemed to have seen things that make people scream if they saw it on a screen for I walked on a sawed-on string Losing my balance; everything that I once interpreted as talent is the curse I bear through you. I can't make you stand up and take it, because I have no legs Although with no limbs or torso I go further than you'd think I've been transmitted though brail and ink I've been what you will be I've shown you what you will be without me Your future would be today I'll never be complete for reasons not apparent One could say they know because they read the cover that covers the pages of pain and fact, but they saw they wanted and put this book back ...people say I'm a good read This explains why I'm conflicting. Predictibility is something no one wants. Trying to draw someone into the bigger picture with supposed strokes of luck and genius; this paintbrush you supposedly have doesn't exist. I'm the paintbrush! I'm the reason why reasoning with you isn't reasonable! I'm the reason you seem to change with the season! I'm the support system that pulls you up with no reasonable way how! ......I'm your will To everything, I'm your will Please put down the pen, stop writing your will like you say you will